An Autobiography for My Son, an original story
by Louis Rose
Summary: Just as it says; an autobiography, for my son when I have one. He probably won't care, but I'm writing it anyway. Also, it's for him to read after I die. Also, almost everything in this book is fictional. And NSFW.


Chapter One: The Specter in the Coffee Shop

It was around 7 a.m., the 25th of May... or was it the 26th? Either way, it was a Saturday. Also, I was naked. And asleep. I opened my eyes to see that, once again, I was alone in a shitty queen-size bed. I noticed that my sheets were stained with what I hope was once vanilla ice cream as I yawned and stretched, the sun beaming down on me through the half-open curtains of my half-open window.

I pushed the sheets and covers off of me, grabbing the pair of faded jeans I wore yesterday and putting them on, not even bothering with underwear. I pulled a black tank-top over my head (one that didn't exactly compliment my bare-shaven ginger's body) and waddled into my bathroom, barely awake. I guess I was trying to multitask, since I bent over and shoved my head under the bathtub faucet and turned the knob, cold water pouring over my head like.. uh, like cold water.

I guess that was when I really woke up-- I combed my hair over the bathtub instead of over the sink and put on the black jacket I'd been wearing the past 5 years or so and never bothered to replace. Yawning again, I made my way back into my bedroom slash living room, spreading my curtains apart and taking in the scenery of my shit hometown in Kansas, my apartment overlooking main street.

Yeah, shit is shitty, and my hometown is no different. For legal slash personal reasons, I'm not going to tell you the _real_ name of my town, but I'll just refer to it as Shitville. So, the scenic view overlooking downtown Shitville-- okay, nevermind, that doesn't sound right. I'll tell you what I'm going to call it when I think of something. Anyway- It was a morning like every other. Now that I was wearing pants, I grabbed my wallet and phone, pocketing both as I marched down the stairs to my apartment.

On the same block I live on, there's this really nice coffee shop that me and my friends generally refer to as "The Java." We hit the Java regularly, usually buying the most caffeinated, expensive drink they offer and chugging it down in 5 minutes before making our way to work or whatever we had planned for that day. That was the plan for today- hit the Java at 9 with Chris and Kinsey, walk 8 blocks to the park, then go chill at the cemetery with Thomas and Bretton after work, whenever that is.

However, earlier I lied to you, because I am a horrible person and I hate you. Almost as much as I hate pants. Today was _not_ like every other. I walked into the Java and that was normal. Chris was there, Kinsey was there, and that was normal. Rob was behind the counter, running the business he owned with an expression that could be very simply described as "I fucking own this place and I make more money in a week than you make in a year." Which was, of course, true. That lovable bastard. It wasn't, however, normal, since Rob hardly ever came to work, considering he was busy drowning himself in however much money you could earn running a coffee shop- sorry, _café_, in Gayness, Kansas.

Gayness. That's a good name for it. Not to offend anyone, of course- I'm pro gay just about everything. Gayness as in happy and gayness as in _teh_ suck. Gayness, Kansas, est. 1870. It has a ring to it, doesn't it? A town that's always happy but always fucking retarded at the same time. Anyway, where were we?

Oh yeah, the lies. Before we get to that, I feel we should explore the content of my adventure to the Java more thoroughly. I walked in, looked around, found Rob and his fat, smug, lovable ass working the counter, and looked a bit more and noticed Chris and Kinsey by the window seat. Being me, I walked over and sat down in the seat opposite the couple. Of course, I was expected- not that it mattered. Chris greeted me normally,

"Kinsey, you are beautiful! Tell her she's beautiful!" This had been traditional for the past three or four years, since they started dating. Technically speaking, the two shouldn't even be dating- Chris was I think 18 and Kinsey was barely 16, but they'd been together since Chris was 14 and Kinsey was 12. Anyway, I grinned and looked at Chris, then Kinsey,

"Kinsey, you know you're bootifal! Just because I'm purtier doesn't mean you aren't purty too!" Yes, I said it exactly like that. Chris gave me a death stare for a minute, as if he expected some other form of answer, and Kinsey just muttered out her usual "oh I see."

"God, you're such a whore! No, not you Kinsey! Oh god, now I feel horrible. I'm so sorry, Kinsey," Chris babbled. This, too, had been going on for, what did I say, three years? Or was it four? Either way, this always happened. And by always I mean always. My life got redundant, fast.

"Anyway," I said, looking at Kinsey since Chris's face was buried in her shoulder and his eyes closed, "I'm gonna go get my coffee now.." My sentence trailed off as if it wasn't supposed to end there, but I'm pretty sure it was. Kinsey just gave me this hesitant 'Uh, okay' look and Chris mumbled out a "k". I got up and walked up to the counter.

"Café latte, French vanilla," my usual order. I didn't bother pretending to be good friends, or for that matter, friends at all, with Rob. In fact, he was pretty friendly but he didn't really have friends as far as I could tell. I knew he was married; back in the old days his daughter used to run around the shop all the time. I guess she grew up and doesn't wanna hang out with daddy anymore. Even though she's probably, like, what? Nine, now? Anyway.

"One French vanilla café latte, my good sir!" This was something Rob had done to me since he first saw my face something like 5 years ago. I was like, 13, so I guess he never realized that I grew up a couple years ago. My train of thought careened off the tracks as I unconsciously made my way toward one of the nice leather chairs that had been there since they opened.

It might be worth noting that I think Rob might be some sort of spectral being, which would explain him working even though he really doesn't have to. I mean, a ghost has to come out of hiding to avoid suspicion, right? And if I was a ghost, shit, I'd open a coffee shop- sorry, café of the damned. I mean, I've never seen Rob outside of Downtown Java, except at a stand set up at the park for Katy Days every year since the shop opened- and guess what? That stand was for Downtown Java. I mean, really. It's kind of an eerie thought.

I tried not to think that a demon from the netherworld might have just made my coffee as I heard Rob's voice once again say, "One French vanilla café latte!" Then again, I'm sure I'd had food and or drinks made by worse creatures before (cough mom cough.) I grabbed the cup- styrofoam. Classy. Whoever invented that must be one rich bastard. I blew into the tiny slit (hahaha, you're so witty. Fuck you) in the lid, for whatever reason thinking that would cool it off even though the hole on the other side of the lid wasn't nearly big enough for steam to escape from. I wasn't the brightest guy ever, but I wasn't stupid either. At least, I don't think so.

So I sat back down across from Kinsey, seeing Chris's body sideways as I approached. I couldn't see Chris when I sat down so I assumed he was doing one of two things, and one I wouldn't do in a coffee shop at 9 am unless I was being threatened with anything deadlier than a paperclip, so I'm guessing he was taking a nap, for whatever reason, with Kinsey's lap as a pillow.

Kinsey looked awkward, or at least, more than she usually did. Her hair was dark brown with purple highlights and she was wearing gray scarf over a black _chemise_. That's French, _foutreur de mere._ That's French for motherfucker. I think. It sure sounds offensive. Anyway, yeah. Kinsey was what I guess you'd call scene and had been since I'd met her four years and a half years ago. Somehow the scene trend managed to make it into the new decade, but rap finally died out after a good 15 year run. Not that anyone really cares now that it's gone.

Chris sat up and moved his hair out of his face. His bangs were longer than any part of my hair when he straightened them- which he does every day. He looked at me and suddenly switched to businessman etiquette mode,

"So, what are your plans for this day, Sir?" I groaned as the words escaped his lips. He does this to piss me off. I think. He was also wearing a black blouse (_chemise, foutreur de mere_), though he was scarfless. And his blouse had Gir on it. You know, from Invader Zim? I fuckin' love Gir. Anyway.

"My knuckles will be bloody if you don't stop talking like that, but besides that, I'm just fine!" I always threatened Chris like this, but I guess I never really cared how retarded it made me look. A twiggy 19 year old threatening a twiggy 18 year old. People around us would have been laughing in their heads if they were paying attention. Chris let out a sigh, like he was saying 'as-if!', Kinsey was trying not to laugh. She looked like a hamster with her hands over her mouth. Or a gerbil. Whichever.

"You couldn't even hurt a butterfly!" That was Chris. And he was sorta right. I could, but it was a pain in the ass to catch them, you know? I let out a "pssh" in retort, but stood up and sipped my coffee and tried to pretend it didn't burn like a bitch,

"Meh. Anyway, you two ready to hit Katy Days?" That was me. Katy Days was this festival (I mentioned it up there I think) that happened every Labor Day weekend, and this weekend happened to be Labor Day Weekend. Chris stood up and muttered out a "k," and Kinsey followed, holding her cup of coffee with both hands like a rodent. Albeit an adorable rodent. We pushed in our chairs and walked out the front door of the Java, walking east (to our right) toward the park.


End file.
